


i am flesh and i am bone

by detectivemeer



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Danny Lawrence/OFC(s), Homophobia, Mentions of Cancer, Minor Laura Hollis/Danny Lawrence, Minor Matska Belmonde/Danny Lawrence, POV Second Person, Summer Society, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 05:45:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5615968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detectivemeer/pseuds/detectivemeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The making and breaking of one Danny Lawrence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i am flesh and i am bone

“Baby, you got that fire from the sun.” You like this story, so you slow down, let your mom scoop you up. You fit on her hip like you were made to. She looks at you, annoyed, adoring. “Hottest day of the year! I was sweating like a pig, but it gave you superpowers.”

You grin, and nod, and clap. This is your favorite bit.

“My super girl,” she says, and she bites at the ends of your fingers until you’re squirming, screaming with laughter. She lets you down and you tear across the yard, zooming in crosshatches over the recently mowed lawn. Your arms are stretched out and you thin your eyes against the wind. Everything is blurry enough that you can pretend you’ve run right off the ground.

-

Your dad is a toilet salesman.

“Someone’s gotta do it,” your mom says, with a firm nod, fiercely set mouth.

“Shit sells,” your dad says, with a wink and a grin. This doesn’t make your mom happy, but you laugh each time.

So, then the doctors. So, then the hospital.

You remember: the gurgle of the water cooler in the hallway. You always fantasized about slipping goldfish into it, watching them swim around. Your fourth grade teacher doesn’t mind you being late on your work, keeps telling you this. You want to snap, say, _cancer isn’t contagious, Ms. Deel._ But you know she’s being nice and you know your mom wouldn’t be happy and you know it wouldn’t matter, anyway.

-

Amy and Jaymie are two years and four years older, respectively. Jaymie is basketball, Amy is track, and you are trying to be better than them at these sports and all other things. The three of you build a fort over your father’s hospital bed and sneak PG-13 movies in on the portable DVD player, even though only he and Jaymie are old enough to watch. He swears he won’t tell mom, and he never does.

-

You hate dresses and he swore you wouldn’t have to wear one, face all yellow and soft and old and _dad_ , but here you are. Mom is close to tears. Yours are fat and hot, angrily rolling down your cheeks. Amy won’t talk. Jaymie tries to do everything at once so she doesn’t have to do anything real at all.

The dress is poofy and you hate it, you hate her for making you wear it, you hate everything. You kick at the back of the pew for the entire service and cut the dress up with scissors when you get home.

-

Patty Alver’s hands have callouses.

Amy is fast as a racehorse and the basketball court in the gym stinks, but softball grows like vines over your heart. The grass and tan clouds of dust. White stripes, sharp enough to cut yourself on. The diamonds, the chain link, the sweat on the back of your neck. By the time you’re fifteen, you’re the best hitter on your team and your shelves are starting to crowd with the trophies.

“You’re not bad,” says Patty, bumping her hip against yours. Patty is a year older and can throw a ball like a dream. “We should practice together sometime.”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding dumbly. Your tongue feels like slush. You don’t remember how to blink or swallow for a few seconds after she leaves. Anxiety tickles the back of your throat, but you can’t place why.

-

Patty Alver’s hands taste like chalk. You can’t help but turn your head, kiss her palm, her knuckles, the soft inside of her thumb. She sucks at your neck and you don’t know yet to worry about hickeys, so you let her. The bleachers echo dully when your head knocks back against them. Patty laughs into your collarbone and you fall in love, fast, right there, staring up at the slitted blue sky and dried up gum stuck under the benches, Patty’s breath warm against your skin.

“You’re improving,” she says, after. Her dark eyes twinkle. You want to kiss her, more, more, again. “If I don’t watch out, you might beat my fastball record.”

“Got a good teacher.” You wink. She giggles. Amy has a boyfriend and she seems happy enough. But, God, the thought makes your gut churn. You’d rather hear that laugh once than have a thousand boyfriends.

Corn sproutings sway and spy indifferently as you pedal past on your way home, smiling so wide you swear you could take a chunk out of the sky.

-

“So I’m gay.”

You can feel yourself start to sweat in the sudden, overwhelming silence, but you refuse to droop your head. Jaymie stops her roll halfway to her mouth. Amy snorts some water through her nose.

“Jesus,” your mother says, and signs the cross.

“That’s a little dramatic, mom, don’t you think?” Your heart is about to beat right out of your throat. Jaymie laughs around the bread suddenly stuffed in her cheeks.

“Is this cause you’re tall?” Amy asks. “Because there _are_ boys who like tall girls.”

Jaymie drops her face into both of her hands. You roll your eyes exaggeratedly.

“You’re nearly as tall as me--Jaymie’s taller than both of us, jeez, _no_. This isn’t because of my height.”

“Jesus Christ,” says mom. She reaches forward for her wine glass and tips it back against her mouth, gulping.

“I guess now’s a good a time as any,” Jaymie says, “I’m moving out.”

Everyone spins on her. Mom says, “ _What?_ ”

“Yeah. Jack and I are getting a place. We’re moving to California.” She grins. “I’m gonna learn to surf.”

-

“You could have told me,” you say, hanging upside down off of Jaymie’s bed.

She shrugs. “You coulda told me.”

“Nobody tells _me_ anything,” pouts Amy. Jaymie shoves her off her dresser to pack up the drawers.

“Jack’s ugly anyway,” you say.

Amy wrinkles her nose. “How would you know?”

“I have _eyes_.” You stick your tongue out. She sticks hers out back.

Jaymie shrugs. “He makes me happy. And I want to--look.” She drops the bag, and sits down in the middle of her floor, motioning with her arms. Amy collapses down next to her. You slither off the sheets and finish the circle, all of your legs crossed, knees touching. Jaymie looks both you and Amy directly in the eyes, serious. “Maybe it won’t work out and I’ll have to come crawling back to mom or whatever, but she can’t stop me right now, and I want to go, so I’m going. But I’m your sister and I’m the oldest so this doesn’t mean I’m still not in charge of you dweebs. You better call me at least once a week so I can still make fun of you the appropriate amount.”

You and Amy protest, groaning. Jaymie catches you both in chokeholds and scrubs her fists over your hair until she’s laughing so hard you both can escape.

-

Being a lesbian isn’t something you can really be in your town. This doesn’t stop you.

Patty gets a boyfriend. You never break her fastball record, but you take the football team’s rival’s head cheerleader to prom and kiss her in the middle of the sweaty gym. Her lips are sticky with lipgloss. _Say something_ , you dare everyone, with your eyes, your mouth brushing hers, your grin when you pull apart to slow dance.

You wish they’d use their words. You wish your fists could find their hate and break it like a board. But it’s all glances, whispers, discomfort in twitches and frowns, soft as shadow, impossible to beat.

Yolanda says, “Make them jealous,” breath cool as water, raising gooseflesh along your neck. She pulls away, meeting your eyes with quirked brows and a pink smirk.

You dance until your feet blister and then you stuff your shoes in the corner and spin her around and around on naked feet, drunk on her laughter and the spring of her dark curls, the way the room drains of prying eyes.

The chaperones glare at you. A teacher tells you that the band is leaving. You can’t stay there.

Yolanda smacks the loudest kiss to your cheek. She says something about finishing the night off as all classic prom nights end and Mr. Roald blusters, face red, nearly spitting.

You snort laughter into her neck and race her down the street, blocks away before you realize you’ve both left your shoes under the punch table.

“What now?” you ask, scratching your ankle with your bare toe. She’s short, which widens the gulf of your usual height difference with people considerably. She has to tip her head back nearly all the way to look at you.

She beams, knocking the breath straight from your chest. Her eyebrows waggle. “Wanna get drunk?”

You end up sprawled out on the asphalt of the supermarket’s parking lot. Across from you is dirt and grass and two of the streetlights are out. Yolanda drinks two beers, you drink one and a half, and you shove each other around in abandoned shopping carts, shrieking and laughing, wild and alive.

Yolanda says, “I like you, Lawerence.” Her arms fold over the handle of the cart, chin perched on her interlaced fingers.

You grin, exhilarated. You lean in nearer, awkward in the cart. “Yeah? It’s the dancing right, you were totally swooning tonight when I did the robot.”

Yolanda snorts, rolls her eyes. Her hair, dark and densely curled, forms a gorgeous halo around her face amidst the shadow and streetlight. “Please, it was mortifying. I thought softball players would have good balance.”

Laughter echoes freely in the empty space. “I thought cheerleaders would have good timing.”

“The band was crap and you know it. Besides,” a sly look steals across her face, “not like anyone was really paying attention to our dance moves.”

“True,” you say, “not with you in that dress.” You meant it as a tease, but it comes out too raw.

“Yeah?” Yolanda’s face is closer than you remember. Her freckled cheeks warm with a blush.

You licks your lips, all bravado. “Yeah.” You close the gap between her lips and yours, fitting your mouth over Yolanda’s in gentle kiss. Yolanda leans in to meet you, but her weight rolls the cart forward a few inches and the movement startles you both apart, huffing with quiet laughter.

-

"Oh, baby," your mom says, sighing. She sets the mail back down on the kitchen table and walks across the room.

You shiver. The draft from the open door behind your slips under your thin shirt and jeans. Mom closes the door, leads you to the kitchen counter, and starts digging through the cabinets.

"I just don't--" she says, and sighs again, biting her bottom lip. She dabs at the cut above your brow before setting a band-aid over it. Antiseptic ointment on your split knuckles, an icepack for your fat lip. You're already so exposed in front of her, vulnerable and open, so you don't mention the bruise on your shins from when they kicked you.

There's nothing more to do, but she keeps doing things. Fussing with your hair, cleaning the dirt off your cheek. Another sigh. 

"I just don't understand why you have to be so--upfront, about it." She looks at your hands, curled to balls, cracking the cuts open further. "Why do you antagonize them? Couldn't you just--"

"What? Lie about who I am?"

"It's not  _lying_ ," her voice is a plea. "I may not  _get_ why you... are what you are, but I love you, honey, I do. You're my daughter. And I don't want to see you get hurt."

You swallow around the sting of her words. You say, slowly, "It would hurt more, if I was afraid."

Her eyes pick up, meet yours. You have her eyes, everyone's always said. Amy and Jaymie got dad's, but your coloring is identical to hers. "You're not afraid?"

"I'm--I'm more afraid about losing myself than I am of getting hit."

"I wish you weren't," she says, too fast, mouth tightening immediately like she wants to take the words back. She looks away again, but you can feel the ghost of her eyes, your eyes, and it sticks uncomfortably in your throat. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised," she says, almost painfully trying for levity. "You always land on your feet, my super girl."

She breaks you, instantly; without meaning to and with three simple words. In a second, you've pitched forward into her arms, sobbing. She stands awkwardly for a moment (you decidedly did not inherit your height from her) before adjusting, arms cradling you strongly. She shushes you with gentle, mothering nonsense that you soak up desperately. 

"I am proud of you," she says in your ear, petting your hair patiently as you cover her shoulder in snot and tears and saliva. "I know I haven't said it, but I am, I am so proud of you, Danny. I could never be as strong as you. You always stand up, you always fight. And if I could stop you, if I could wrap you up in bubble wrap, I would." You laugh at the thought, a wracked sound, and there's a smile in her voice when she says, "But I'm proud of you for it."

-

You stare for a long time at the acceptance letters, but there’s really not a choice. Silas is across an ocean, and, well. You’ve never really been able to do things by halves.

-

Every one of them, you love. Magic. It is, and it isn’t.

The initiation is painless. You weep. They say, _let it out_ , and catch each tear after it falls. The woods kiss your skin with sweet air and they tie flowers in your hair, bathe your face in crushed red berries. The juice slips between the crack of your lips, tart and bright on your tongue. _Family_ , they say, and, _home_.

“Yes,” you say, and, “ _thank you._ ”

-

Jess teaches you how to hold a bow. She french braids your hair, badly, before moving on to torture the rest of the Summers with her newfound interest in being a beautician. (It won’t last--she loves her cello more than life, but you will always indulge whatever new shiny thing she likes, it’s what you do for each other.) Margie is a chemist, blows up something at least weekly. You sit with her in the main room and watch Austrian soap operas until it’s a new day, and the grief of losing her mother is softened by exhaustion. Neyla is faster than you, she likes to tease you with it. You race her every morning you can fit your schedules together, trying like hell to win, tackling her at the end of it, frustrated and laughing as she shoves your face in the grass. She sweats and grins and is fiercely proud and underneath all the competitiveness you’re glad you’ll never beat her. Abigail and Eve create and maintain the little garden in front of the house. Shay collects the tomatoes and cucumbers when they’re ripe, makes a huge summer salad with a fresh dressing. All those home grown herbs and recently plucked fruits and vegetables are a feast, the whole house lounging around the kitchen. You’re lying on the floor, cool tile a blessing on your sweltering skin. Abi and Evie are on either side of you, patting their full stomachs, flirting outrageously with each other. They ask Shay to cater their wedding and everyone groans and throws things, _she’ll kill us, are you kidding me--do you want all your guests to die of overeating?_ They scoff. _Who says you’re all invited?_ More groaning and throwing. You tug at Abi’s nose ring, blow a raspberry in Evie’s face and they attack you with tickles from both sides until you’re giggling and gasping so hard you think you’ll throw up. It turns out, you are worse at sign language than you are at French, and you’re really awful at French. Page laughs at you a lot, but she also holds your hands a lot, correcting their positions, and it makes your heart skip, your skin flush. Her fingers are soft, her smile knowing. She lets you down easy, understands when you decide to take your lessons from Jess instead. Once, though, during your first Styria winter, she kisses your cheek under the mistletoe, and you'll swear you’ve never felt warmer. Mariel is the first person you come out to, on campus. There’s a little grove, on the north side of the quad, and you’re curled up in a ball, face in your knees. You’re terrified and far away from family and all that you know. You’ve never felt more alone, more scared. You want your sisters and your mom. You want your dad. She drops down next to you, asks if you’re okay. You’re crying. She takes your hand. You blurt out, _don’t, I’m a lesbian_ , and she laughs, says, _I don’t think that’s contagious, kid_. And then she says, _have you heard of the Summers? Come with me. We’ll grab some lunch and I’ll bring you around, you can check us out._ She leans in, very close, winking, _at the very least you’ll meet lots of cute girls that already have, uh, the bug, if you catch my drift._

You take a bitter breath. Their bodies are undignified--bent awkwardly, eyes open, clothes shredded. There wasn’t any peace in their deaths, just blood and fear and pain.

They trusted you. They came for you when you called. They--

You drop very easily to your knees and touch the back of Neyla’s broken hand. Something vital inside of you snaps and falls to dust.

-

There’s a moment. Somewhere between _pain_ and the gentle knowledge that you’re dying. Her face is blurry. The words won’t come anymore. You hope they were enough to lift the weight of this off her soul, because she doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve any of this, none of you have, and it’s all unfair, unjust--part of your heart yearns to touch, be touched, part of it mourns, part--

You’re dying. The chaos of knowing is so sharp. But, for a moment,

Your father’s neck, your skinny arms around it when he gave you piggyback rides. Your first car accident. Amy sobbing into your neck after getting dumped. The first time you broke someone’s nose, the ensuing grounding so completely worth it for watching Amy smile the first time in weeks. All the goldfish. Birthday cake. Laura’s fingertips touching the back of your hand. Movies as a child, bright animated kaleidoscopes of color and shape. The Summers, their love, their blood, the homes in your heart that live an ocean apart. Jaymie dancing, dragging you in. Your first shitty job in retail. Being loud, the rainbow pins, sneakers, being spit on, spitting back. A parade, your first, a kiss, your fourth. Burnt Christmas dinner. Laughing, hitting your best friend with your pillow, crying into it in the dark. Your recurring nightmare about falling off a cliff, falling, falling, falling, no end in sight. Laura’s wrist, the smell of her hair, the wrinkle of her brow. Cut grass itching your skin. A softball. A smile. Yourself, in the mirror. A hand. A thousand hands, reaching out, and you, reaching back--

It all chokes in your throat, corking every memory in your lungs, making it impossible to breathe. It’s impossible to breathe.

-

A string is tied to your breastbone and someone is tugging.

Stand up. Forty fists and forty nights. You were born on the hottest day in July. Stand up. That’s what you knew. That’s what filled your posture, twist-tied your jaw shut. _Stand up_ , your mother's voice, firm hands over your thin wrists. Don’t let them win. You get up. Get on your goddamn feet.

-

Mom was right, the life of a cat is the way of it. You stand up, shaky as a foal. Perry’s face--because that is _not_ Perry--smiles at you. You inhale and taste the rough red composition of her lipstick on the roof of your mouth.

He really never had a chance.

You’re reminded of when you were a kid, after. Sucking apple juice out of a box, the wrinkled cardboard and spit-chewed straw. She wipes the corner of your mouth with the tip of a pristine handkerchief.

“My,” she says, eyes bright, bright, “you are lovely.”

-

You want to go back, you want to go back. You want to kiss Laura without hearing her heartbeat singing soprano sweet, humming in the back of your teeth. You want to go home without knowing you can make your family a crime scene--without knowing how you’d clean it up. You want the Summers to hold you close like they did when your grandmother passed and you want to look in the mirror and know who you are.

-

Rock, paper, scissors, gun. You are a pretty thing. You are tall and your feet are too big and your hands are too mean. But Mother says, _pretty thing_ , pets your hair.

Dog, girl, sit there, now. Be quiet, dear. Open your mouth, daughter, show me what great teeth I gave you. Rip his throat out, Fido, _sic 'em_.

You don’t like this leash but you are a hungry beast. You gnaw off the hand that fed you. No masters or hounds here: just you, pretty thing with your sharp teeth.

You chose rock, you break the scissors, you burn the paper, you push the gun past their lips and watch them choke on it. Imagine: you bash her skull in and eat her heart. The blood left on the stone stains her precious Persian rug.

-

Shame coats your teeth, sits stiffly somewhere behind your tongue, when Laura looks at you for the first time--or, again?

It doesn’t matter. _It doesn’t matter._

Her precious throat, her soft heart, that iron core. Love is hard to find these days; hunger is a wide, gaping maw that swallows most things. You’re searching for a bead of water hidden on a black sand beach in the middle of the night. But when she looks at you--

Oh. Oh, soft as a shadow, sweeter than the sun.

-

You kiss her, fast and mean. She kisses back, meaner. Her hands are vices, her mouth is a miracle. Blood-hot and panting, her tongue licks your sharp incisors and she shoves you back against the wall.

"I don't enjoy holding a grudge, but I don't enjoy being killed, either," says Mattie, saccharine and savage. She pulls back, one hand at your throat, one skipping her fingertips from your cheek to jaw. You are prey; no more than a mouse being batted around by a lioness, her eyes let you know. "But we don’t have time to waste. Demons to destroy, countries to rule.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Revenge, darling.” She smiles at you. A flash of teeth, all canine. “I’m talking about my plan. Do you want your life back? Or would you like to stay mommy dearest’s lapdog for the rest of it?”

You snarl. Her smile grows.

She drops her hand. You resist the urge to rub at your throat.

“Much as I’d enjoy ripping your head off,” her dilated stare implies she’d enjoy this _very_ much, “I can recognize our common enemy, the woman actually responsible for our deaths. I didn’t like dying the first time around, but this time it’s personal. And we can make that unholy bitch burn for an eternity for it all.” Mattie flips her hair over her shoulder, smouldering eyes dropping to inspect her nails. “If you’d like.”

You flex your hands, fingers digging briefly into your palm. You smile, all teeth and terror. “Where do we start?”

**Author's Note:**

> title from "Glitter and Gold" by Barns Courntey  
> <3 danny  
> [tumblr](http://katsofmeer.tumblr.com/)


End file.
